


We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Immortality, M/M, Mortal!Pip and Immortal!Damien, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4343807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are immortal.  He is not.  These are two facts that you, the son of Satan, are all too painfully aware of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, fondness makes the absence longer.”

You are immortal. He is not. These are two facts that you, the son of Satan, are all too painfully aware of.

It began in 1346. The Bubonic Plague had hit Britain and turned the country into nothing more than a suffering wasteland. Thousands were dying, and, naturally, you were drawn to disaster. Strangely, so was he. When you first arrived you were living in a rundown, abandoned farmhouse that had belonged to a lovely couple and their two young children before starvation and sickness had destroyed them. You would watch the cadaver-like bodies of men, women, and children moving through the streets, searching for food and remedies that you knew they would never find. It wasn’t like you enjoyed it, necessarily, but it did mean there would be an influx of new souls in Hell and that meant you would have something to do when you finally returned home. One day- you don’t recall much about the day in particular, but you knew that the sky was so blue it matched his eyes- you stood in the town square of some tiny village you didn’t bother to learn the name of when a boy haggling with a merchant caught your eye. He had blond hair that looked as soft as golden fleece; there was no reason, but you had a burning desire to touch it. He was rather short with a thin form as a result of the hunger that was no doubt hitting him as badly as everyone else. His mannerisms as he moved were rather feminine- delicate, gentle. He was like a lamb. A sudden feeling burned in your stomach and you didn’t know what the Hell it was at the time, but it felt awkward and strange and somehow he had caused it.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to burn him alive or pull him closer to you. Maybe a strange mix of both.

In any case, you ended up following him home at a safe distance. Most people would call you creepy, and they wouldn’t be wrong. He lived in a tiny shack that was falling apart slowly, board by board, the paint cracked with age. A woman that looked older than him- though not by more than a few years- stood outside, gathering firewood from the log pile outside. Upon his arrival, the woman went into a screaming fit, smacking the back of his head and lecturing him for not “getting enough money for what he had traded”. He tried feebly to defend himself, only to earn another smack and be tugged forcefully into the house.

You were angry. Unreasonably angry, and all because of… What? Some woman hitting a mortal? You had done far worse to mortals in your time, and yet fury bubbled in you and threatened to spill over, the air crackling with the familiar heat that accompanied your rage. Before the dead grass around you could singe, you stomped away, back to your barn and away from the stranger.

The next day, you saw him in the market again. This time, you were close enough to hear his conversation with the merchant.

“Her fever won’t go down! Please, sir, we need the medicine! She will no doubt perish otherwise-”

The merchant sighed and leaned on the front of his cart, his chin perched on his hand. “I’m afraid I can’t accept any less than 10 florins per bottle. 5 florins is far too little for the remedies I offer. Please step aside; I will not waste any more time on this.” 

The boy was downtrodden, looking miserably at the meager amount of money in his hands and looking about ready to plead again, but instead stepped out of line and headed back toward the direction of his home. You narrowed your eyes at the shopkeeper, hands clenching and jaw set in an angry scowl. Reaching into your rucksack, you withdrew a handful of coins; the entire bag was full of them, for money was the only thing he needed on Earth, and thankfully your father had given him a healthy amount before his departure from the seventh layer. You made your way to the stall, pushing customers out of the way until you reached the front, slamming the coins down with a grimace. “Give me as much as this will buy.” The merchant simply oggled at the amount and nodded.

Three bottles of elixir sitting comfortably in your bag, you arrived at the blond’s home and knocked on the barely-standing door, fearing that it would quite literally disintegrate under your touch. After a long moment, the door was opened and the stranger was standing in the doorway. In front of him. Close enough to touch if he wanted to. Your words caught in your throat and you couldn’t help but feel foolish and slightly irritated, unable to say anything under the boy’s sky-blue gaze. “Is there… anything I can do to help you?” His voice was a gentle British lilt, as sweet as honey and soft as the cotton clouds in the sky. The absolute epitome of innocence in a human form, and you felt like he were going crazy. The boy looked a little lost, unsure what to say in the midst of your silence. “Ah… Are you lost?”

“No!” You replied quickly, just loud and forceful enough that the blond flinched. Get it together. “I mean… no, no I’m fully aware of my whereabouts.”

“Ah, okay,” the other said hesitantly, arms pulled close to himself as if he were afraid to step any closer, “Then, what can I do for you?”

A lot of things, really. “I saw you with that merchant. You appeared to be having some trouble, so…” You withdrew the green-tinted bottles and held them in front of you, the other boy looking at them in awe. You held them out to him a little further in insistence for him to take them. The stranger took them carefully, as though they might break if he held them the wrong way.

“I… Thank you.” The blond looked close to tears, a tiny smile lighting up his face. 

You learned his name was Philip, but everyone called him Pip. You liked the name. After you had supplied him with the medicine, he had made it a point to get to know you. You lied about your life, as usual, and he believed every word like a gullible child- humans were far too trusting. In exchange, you found out a good deal about him as well over a number of shared afternoons when he wasn’t working. He was 16- you were around 17 in the particular physical form you had chosen, which was incredibly convenient- and spent his mornings laboring in the barren fields, trying hard to plant crops that would never grow for a meager payment that he accepted because it was better than nothing. He was a writer who kept a small, leather-bound journal that held a number of short stories and poetry verses. He had a particular love of spring. He lived with his Aunt Flora and younger cousin Ruth, who had been sick with cholera when Damien first met him. His dream was to move to the sea, where he would have a beautiful ocean view and live in a port town- speak with all the sailors and fishermen who went out to sea and hear the stories they had to tell about faraway places. He was kind-hearted and earnest, and easy to impress. 

You were positively smitten. 

The mild spring quickly turned to a hot, sweltering summer. The hunger was only getting worse, crops dying out even more rapidly than in the spring from the heat. Sickness was spread easier with the unbearable temperature. Eventually, a majority of the village’s crops died and Pip was out of work. He was the last to eat in his household, and you knew that all too well; you invested a great amount of money in whatever food the market could provide, which you would give to him and he would not question because food was food. He was struggling and you were frustrated; there was only so much you could do to help him. And you wanted so badly to help him.

One day the two of you lazed in your unfurnished barn, lying in the haystack underneath a large open skylight. You had stripped off your shirts long ago, the heat proving too harsh for clothing. At some point your eyes wandered to him; his ribs protruded from from the taut, summer-tanned skin of his torso and a litter of freckles dotting his chest like stars. His flaxen hair was splayed out like a halo, long lashes half-lidded over his eyes, staring up at the sky as attentively as a Christian studying their Bible. He was glorious. Divine. Angelic. If your heart could beat, it would be out of control by now.

Without thinking, you sat up and traced his jawline with your fingertips, causing him to start and bolt upright. You flinched and withdrew your hand. Stupid. Soft fingers touched yours and drew you back, your hand cupping his cheek and his covering yours. He leaned into the caress, his soft gaze meeting yours and a bubbly giggle escaping him. His hands were calloused from work but the skin of his cheek was smooth, devoid of imperfections. You leaned in and kissed him, because who the Hell wouldn’t in your position. It was chaste and quick, just the tiniest brush of your lips. You parted. His eyes were dazed and hand shaking over yours. He decided it wasn’t enough and his lips were locked with yours again. You lick his bottom lip and he’s gone, melted in your arms. You’re practically sharing oxygen- oxygen you don’t need and have never needed because you cannot die. By the time it’s over his cheeks were dusted a pretty, pale pink. You brush a lock of hair behind his ear and he grins at you, eyes alight with elation.

It was in that moment you decided that he could not possibly be human.

You were wrong. So horribly wrong. 

Two years had passed since the day in the barn. His aunt and cousin had decided to try and leave, to find somewhere less riddled with the plague and hunger; you knew that their journey would be unsuccessful, but since Pip was more than prepared to live with you since he would have no home, you didn’t say a word the day they left. He had gained a new job at a shoe-mender’s shop in town and you busied yourself with work your father assigned to you. You had never told Pip who or what you were and why you always had money and never needed to work, and he never asked; even upon your insistence that he need not work, he did anyway. Perhaps it was because that’s what normal life was. You never truly understood that. Your love was absolutely not allowed out in the open where others would see, so the barn became a refuge for the two of you to simply live in peace.

That peace was shattered during midwinter when he had stumbled into your shared home and nearly passed out in the doorway, burning with a high fever and shaking so horribly it was a wonder he could make it home at all. Days passed and things only got worse. You tried every medicine available from the apothecary, every remedy, because you could afford it and you would pay anything if it meant he would get well again. The medicine had no effect, of course; you pleaded with your father to save him, but some things are beyond his limitations. You still don’t know if that was a lie at his own expense or the truth. Either way, by the time he was bedridden and unable to move you felt numb and powerless. You had never felt powerless before. It was frightening.

You sat by his bed and stroked his hair, told him about who you really were. He didn’t seem to mind; either that or he was too far gone to understand you. Those vibrant eyes had turned dull as cold metal, skin sickly pale, throat closed with blisters to the point where he couldn’t speak, only breath in raspy breaths and whine feebly. You wanted this to be over. It was unbearable to see the boy you loved suffering, but you couldn’t bring it upon yourself to finish it yourself. So instead, you waited it out. You never left his side. He died late enough in the night that it was nearly the brink of dawn. You burned the barn and went back down to where you belonged, somber and melancholic. 

You stood for days at the gates of Hell, waiting for him to arrive, but you knew he never would because he was too pure for this place. 

Your father noticed how gloomy you were when you locked yourself away in your room, simply lying on your bed for what was more than likely years of Earth time. You stopped actually counting days because you didn’t care much anymore. 

“You can’t sit around like this for eternity, Damien,” he told you, “You have work to do. Some Earth time might be healthy for you.” You doubted that, but no one could tell Satan “no”, no matter who you were. You begrudgingly left your fiery home for the cold surface of Earth.

1542\. You’re in Portsmouth, England. You hated being in England, but it was where your father had sent you. You were in some overpopulated tavern; it was full of soldiers serving the King, and you found them to be obnoxious and rude. A female server was clearly trying to woo you, and you found yourself lacking any sort of interest. You could have anyone you wanted, really, but absolutely no one was appealing. Instead of trying to make conversation, you drowned out your sorrows in alcohol and kept your gaze down. A stranger sits down beside you and you hang your head lower, wanting nothing more than to return to Hell and mope in your bed. 

“Seems you’re having a hard day, huh?” The voice was familiar. Soft, lilting, easy on the ears; but it couldn’t be him because he was gone and probably prospering up in Heaven. You kept your head down, not wanting to play into whatever vile trick this was supposed to be. “Is there… anything I can do to help you?”

You sat up immediately and looked to the man sitting next to you at the bar and you felt like an anvil had hit you in the stomach and crushed every one of your organs. 

His blond hair was tied up in a short ponytail, sky-blue eyes looking at you with concern. It was him; he was older and there was absolutely no way that it should be him, but it was him. Without thinking, you launched out of your chair and captured him in a crushing embrace, squeezing hard enough to bruise because you absolutely had to know if he was really here, in front of you.

“Wh-What are you doing?!” he yelped, struggling in your grasp and pushing you away, leaving you confused.

“Pip, it’s me. How could you not remember?” 

“How do you know my name?” he asked uneasily, hands gripping his barstool, “I suppose… I may have met you, but I’m afraid I don’t remember, sir.”

He doesn’t remember. He really doesn’t remember you. You’re struggling for words, and can barely get anything out before the blond gets up and heads for the exit, trekking out into the crisp autumn air. You follow him, of course, racing out the door and catching up with him in the street. He looks a little afraid, now, and quickens his pace, but you make sure to keep in step with him.

“Look, I… I’m sorry about scaring you before,” you say, trying to catch his gaze, “We’ve met before. If you don’t remember me, can I at least reintroduce myself and maybe buy you a drink to make it up to you?” Pip stops and shoves his hands in his coat pockets, looking hesitant- you know he won’t refuse, though. That’s the kind of person he is. Too nice for his own good.

“Alright, then… Who are you?” 

“Damien. Damien Thorne,” you say, reaching out your hand to shake his. 

He smiles and you feel better than you have in decades. He reaches out and takes your hand. “Philip Pirrup. But you can call me Pip… Well, I guess you knew that already.”

You learn about reincarnation from your father and how the principles work; those who die young are bound to live again. You fall in love all over again and learn about Pip’s new life. This time, he’s 22 when you meet him. He’s an officer in the British naval forces and he lives a modest but comfortable life. He’s an apprentice to a doctor in town. He’s just as beautiful as you remember.

In 1544 he’s sent off to sea with British naval vessels.

In 1545 he sinks with the Mary Rose.

The funeral is small and you are lost again.

Afterward, you wander the populated parts of Earth, searching for him again. You know that he’ll be back. The young are bound to live again, and so you hold on to the hope that you will find him again and things will be different.

You find him again, but things are not different.

1598, you meet him in the streets of London and he is 17. You both attend an art conservatory- being alive for hundreds of years gives you a wide skill set, and you manage to smuggle your way in after learning that he attended there. He’s a painter. His favorite thing to paint is you. He dies at 19 when a lowlife in the street stabs him for what little is in his pockets while you were too busy painting for him to keep an eye out.

In 1692, you may as well have killed him yourself. You meet him at 13 in Salem, of all places. The preacher warns him of you; he feels that Satan walks with you. On the contrary, Satan is more or less walking with him. Pip doesn’t listen. You lose your temper with his guardian- who was trying to beat him silly at the moment for making a simple mistake that anyone else would have- and you light her kitchen stove on fire. There’s an uproar. You’re both sent to the gallows and the look he gets while he’s standing on the platform with a rope around his neck next to you makes you want to tear out your eyes so you don’t have to stomach it. The floor falls out from under the both of you and your neck breaks- it fucking hurts, but not nearly as bad as knowing that you sent your love to death at only 15-years-old. Your neck will heal, but your heartache won’t.

In 1728, he is a violinist prodigy. You first see him at an opera hall concert in Italy, playing a solo concerto at only 18. You discover that he travels and you decide to go with him. You write music together and perform in venues all over Europe, the most promising duo that Europe has to offer. He breaks his wrist at 20 and it doesn’t heal properly. He falls into depression and you do everything you can to help him recover, but he never does. He jumps from the 12th story window of your hotel room at age 22. You wish it was that easy for you, too.

In 1834, you meet him at 5-years-old. He is an orphan, kept in a workhouse. You’re glad you can change your physical form, because it’s easy to pose as an orphan when you have a sad, 5-year-old puppydog face. You become best friends, and even though he only has the intellect of a child just out of their toddler stage, you can’t help but enjoy being in his company. Of course, the orphanage is not a kind place. You give him your food on top of his meager amount, but it’s not enough to save him. He starves in the creaky wrought iron bed at 9-years-old; barely old enough to fear death. This was your least favorite time around.

The years pass on like blurs, and the cycle never ceases. You’ve followed him to every country on the planet, watched him die every time you’ve found him. Sometimes it’s only months after each death that you find him; sometimes it’s decades. You stopped counting. You became angry and cold. You refused to talk to your father, refused to search for him again. Of course, this time, he found you. He found you, and yet he still died in the end. The two of you were like magnets; always attracted to each other. Always bound to find each other in the end, whether you wanted to or not. It was a joke. A cruel joke. You couldn’t help but feel this was some kind of punishment for being the son of Satan- maybe God or Jesus or someone else who was seen as the big man in the sky laid a curse on you and they were laughing at you from above. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to you and it wasn’t fair to Pip. He didn’t deserve for his life to be cut short so many fucking times, and you didn’t deserve to be there to witness it. 

In 1936, when you ran into him on accident, he was already in love with someone else. Some perfect girl with a perfectly outstanding personality. They fit each other well and it made you question whether or not you were right together in the first place. You are enraged, but who are you to ruin his happiness? He dies in 1938 as a soldier, and you attend what must be the hundredth funeral. You look to his wife, who is crying beside you over his gravestone, and you want to scream at her to suck it up; you had seen this countless times. Seeing it once was nothing. But you remember that she has only one lifetime while your lifetime will never end, and you leave her alone to grieve instead.

The longest amount of time you had together was 12 years; you met him in 1965 at age 11. He lived in a terrible home with horrible parents, and you wanted so desperately to save him from that. You graduated high school together as a couple, your hands interlocked as you celebrated the night at your lonely studio apartment. You sleep with him in your arms, his hair clinging to his sweat-slicked forehead and neck covered in bruises, and you think that things will last this time. You trick yourself into it, at least, because you know that it’s not going to end happily. 

The two of you are in a rush to get to your college classes on time; both of you are excited to be free of the school system, with only 4 months left of schooling before you start your careers. He runs ahead of you, book bag slung over his shoulder and laughter permeating the air like the ringing of bells; he dashes into a crosswalk and is blindsided by a white van. Blood spatters the pavement and your shoes and you stop for only a moment. You turn around, indifferent, and walk away from the scene before the ambulance arrives.

You’re a bad omen and you know it. You try to stay detached for a long time, try to pull yourself away, try not to intervene, but you always end up by his side one way or another.

The year is 1998 and you find yourself in some stupid, small town in Colorado. Your father has insisted now is the time to finally bring about destruction to the world, and at this point, you’d welcome that with open arms. He enrolls you in an elementary school there and everyone treats you like shit. You’re on the playground when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn and it’s him; of course, it’s him. He’s only 9, in the same class as you. You should just kill him now to save yourself the trouble. He’s only going to go through worse, later. But you couldn’t, and you won’t. 

“Hello, my name’s Philip! But everyone calls me Pip, because they hate me.”

You find it disgusting that anyone could hate him, but you’ve been through too much to argue that matter.

“Then I’ll call you Pip.”

**Author's Note:**

> Song: We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed by Los Campesinos!


End file.
